The Emergency Chairman
The central headquarters of the Tongil National Party, the party born from the unification movement. Even after the general assembly of lawmakers had concluded, no one dispersed. Another small event was still scheduled. Jeon Myeong-heon and roughly fifty lawmakers remained seated in the fifth-floor conference room where the assembly had been held, waiting. With so many people gathered, a low murmur might have been expected, yet the powerful presence of Jeon Myeong-heon at the center made casual chatter impossible. The first-floor lobby buzzed like a marketplace from the swarm of reporters, but the fifth floor was utterly silent. The soundproofing company deserved a bonus. When the small side door finally opened, the faint creak of the hinges drew every lawmaker’s gaze at once.
It was the personal secretary who had accompanied Jeon Myeong-heon to Busan. Ignoring the weight of their stares, he walked straight to Jeon Myeong-heon and spoke quietly. “Candidate, the Chairman has called. He says he has entered Seoul and will arrive within thirty minutes.”
The words were spoken softly, yet the room was so still that even those in the back rows could hear them clearly if they concentrated. Jeon Myeong-heon’s expression, which had been rigid with tension since hearing Yoo Jae-won’s name, softened slightly. Conversations began to stir once more.
“Congressman Jeon.”
Jeon Myeong-heon turned to his son, Jeon Jae-jun, seated beside him. “Yes.” Jeon Jae-jun’s reply was listless. Until yesterday he had been the undisputed prince of the party. As the only man who dared speak his mind to the all-powerful Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon, he had become the hope of lawmakers weary of the old guard and was rapidly building a new faction of more than twenty members. That number had been enough to let him walk the National Assembly with his head held high. Now, in a single day, everything had shattered.
Yesterday Kim Woo-jung’s presidential candidacy had broken as an exclusive. Moments ago, the informant planted inside the Democratic Liberal Party had reported that Kim Young-sam’s campaign was about to unveil the real-name financial transaction system as an election pledge. Was Yoo Jae-won some kind of prophet? How could two impossible predictions both come true? Jeon Jae-jun’s limited mind could not comprehend it. Because he could not understand it, he could not truly accept it. His tone when answering his father was thick with resentment.
“The Chairman you are to serve is arriving. Shouldn’t you go down and greet him properly?”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s next words were worse. The election had not even begun. To spend the next forty-plus days propping up Yoo Jae-won was something Jeon Jae-jun could not stomach. He would rather throw away his gold badge than endure it. He had lived as a prince inside Mirae Group; this was beneath him. Naturally, he had offered to resign his seat, but the suggestion had not moved Jeon Myeong-heon in the slightest.
“That badge was never yours. Don’t delude yourself. There was no one else to give it to, so you are merely holding it for now.”
The cold reply had laid bare the brutal truth. In Ulsan, Jeon Jae-jun might have been a prince, but the emperor was always Jeon Myeong-heon. If Jeon Myeong-heon chose any passerby to run in Ulsan, that person would win by a landslide. That was what a true stronghold meant.
“Understood.”
Jeon Jae-jun rose awkwardly from the plush chair. He could not defy his father’s command, no matter how much he hated it. His expression, however, was a mess; resentment was written plainly across his face.
“Wait. Let’s speak privately in the waiting room first.”
Jeon Myeong-heon, who had been watching his son with cold eyes, called out. Jeon Jae-jun flinched. He knew better than anyone what “privately” implied. Panic flashed across his face as he glanced around, but no one in the room would save him.
A short while later, a sharp cry of pain erupted from the small waiting room. The sound was loud enough to silence the lawmakers who had been chatting quietly after Yoo Jae-won’s message. The door opened again and Jeon Jae-jun limped out first, fleeing the hall without looking back.
“Tsk.” Jeon Myeong-heon watched him go with open contempt. Every time he looked at his son, anger surged, and today it was especially fierce. The root cause was simple: their personalities were so different that Jeon Myeong-heon sometimes wondered if the boy was truly his own blood. He had endured it because it felt like spitting on his own face, yet the pettiness of it all disgusted him. Raising the youngest with excessive indulgence had been a mistake. No matter how many times he warned that one must look past appearances to the true nature of a person, Jeon Jae-jun never listened. Worse, he was the sort of small-minded man who had to retaliate whenever he held a grudge. If he could fix even those two flaws, Jeon Myeong-heon might have handed him a major affiliate of Mirae Group. As things stood, there was no hope. He almost felt sorry for sending Jeon Jae-jun to Yoo Jae-won. It was like burdening an already busy man with dead weight. Still, as a father, he wanted his son to learn something at Yoo Jae-won’s side, so he had kicked him down the stairs to make him go.
By the time Yoo Jae-won’s Grandeur limousine neared Yeouido, the car phone rang. Kim Dae-seok, seated beside him, answered. The number had spread through word of mouth, bringing an increasing number of nuisance calls, so the connection protocol had changed. After a brief exchange, Kim Dae-seok handed the receiver to Yoo Jae-won.
“It’s Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook.”
Choi Kang-wook? Had something urgent happened in the United States?
“Yes, it’s me. What’s the matter?”
“Chairman, do you intend to remain involved in politics going forward?”
Choi Kang-wook had clearly picked up Yoo Jae-won’s direct style after working together for so long. The question came straight and without preamble. Yoo Jae-won’s official schedule was reported immediately to key executives through ID Talk; seeing the Tongil National Party listed had apparently prompted the call.
“Chief of Staff, do you dislike the idea of me entering politics?”
“I would never presume to voice personal preferences. I simply need to understand your intentions clearly so I can carry out my duties properly.”
That was Choi Kang-wook. Before a decision was made he would have offered various opinions, but once it was finalized he moved straight to supporting it.
“I have no intention of staying in politics, not even a little. I’m only stepping in because I believe this opportunity can be leveraged for greater gains later. Think of it as a high-paying, short-term part-time job.”
The Tongil National Party currently held more than fifty seats and served as the decisive swing vote in the National Assembly. People accustomed to the two-party system called them opportunists who attached themselves to whichever side was convenient, yet thanks to the party the last regular session had passed far more livelihood-related bills than before. It was the perfect position to act as a counterweight. In his previous life the party had collapsed immediately after the fourteenth presidential election. Yoo Jae-won intended to ensure that, even if Jeon Myeong-heon did not become president, the Tongil National Party itself would survive. Such thoughts were not something he could share with just anyone, but Choi Kang-wook was not just anyone.
“If that is the case, perhaps you could send a proxy instead.”
“I considered it, but it won’t work. Some things can be delegated; others cannot. This situation requires rapid, precise responses, and I prefer to handle it myself and accept the results directly. If a proxy failed, the regret would last far too long. Besides, I am not the sort of person who can quietly swallow damage to my own reputation.”
“Understood. I will find ways to support you, Chairman.”
“Please don’t overextend yourself.”
The call ended. By then the car had arrived at the Tongil National Party’s Yeouido headquarters. Yoo Jae-won’s Grandeur limousine was an icon in itself. People recognized it instantly as “Yoo Jae-won’s car” rather than by its formal name, Grandeur Limousine V 3.0 AMG. The moment the reporters saw the vehicle, they surged forward.
“We may need to wait until the area is cleared,” Kim Dae-seok said. Bodyguards who had been riding in the cars ahead and behind stepped out and began moving. Their task was to peel the reporters—clinging to the vehicle like leeches and firing flashbulbs—away from the car and create a path for Yoo Jae-won to enter. The commotion was intense. Basic insults were the least of it; every imaginable curse poured out. The reporters who worked the scene had sharp tongues, and phrases Yoo Jae-won had never heard before flew freely. Still, order was restored quickly. The sheer physical presence of the large foreign bodyguards, combined with the natural intimidation they projected, kept the crowd from pressing forward once they regained their senses.
Once the entrance was cleared, Yoo Jae-won stepped out of the car. A storm of camera flashes turned the lobby brighter than daylight. His confident expression and upright stride added to the aura of a protagonist making his entrance. Even Jeon Jae-jun, waiting inside with a thoroughly sour face, stared for a moment, momentarily forgetting the throbbing pain in his shin.
How could he have agreed to become emergency committee chairman?
Publicly siding with the Tongil National Party—won’t that burden ID Group’s management?
What is your innovative election strategy?
Just one word, please!
As Yoo Jae-won climbed the stairs, several sharp questions rose above the clamor. He paused on the final step leading into the lobby. The move was unplanned, and Kim Dae-seok looked startled. The schedule inside the Tongil National Party building was straightforward: proceed to the fifth floor, receive the appointment letter from the floor leader, greet the lawmakers, and deliver a brief vision statement. After that, Yoo Jae-won would hold full authority to direct the party’s presidential campaign. No press conference had been scheduled. He could simply walk past, yet he stopped.
“I will keep this brief. The true protagonists of any election are the citizens who hold the right to vote. My only role will be to clearly convey to the public the charm of Candidate Jeon Myeong-heon, whom I admire, and the great vision he holds for the Republic of Korea. Furthermore, once the election concludes—regardless of the outcome—I will return to my primary duties in the United States. I state this with absolute certainty.”
A collective murmur of approval rose from the reporters. The statement neatly reminded everyone of the true meaning of the election at a time when candidates were multiplying, voices were growing louder, and the race was descending into mudslinging and black propaganda. The way it wrapped Jeon Myeong-heon in praise was also perfectly pitched. Yoo Jae-won’s reputation needed no introduction. When a man of his stature declared that he admired Jeon Myeong-heon, the candidate suddenly appeared in a new light. The reporters, exhausted from hours of being jostled, left satisfied, their notebooks and cameras full.
“Ah, Congressman Jeon. Good to see you.”
Jeon Jae-jun appeared the moment Yoo Jae-won stepped into the lobby after pushing through the press. Their eyes met, and Yoo Jae-won greeted him first.
“Oh? Yeah. It’s been a while.”
Even though resentment simmered inside him, Jeon Jae-jun could not ignore the greeting.
“Were you waiting for me?”
Yoo Jae-won asked knowingly. His instincts were sharp. The aura Jeon Jae-jun now projected was markedly different from during the general election. Even then Yoo Jae-won had not found him particularly likable; now a faint hostility could be felt. Hostility toward someone who had come to help. Logically it made no sense, yet Yoo Jae-won’s expression showed complete understanding. Jeon Jae-jun’s blunders had left too large a footprint in history. His withdrawal of support the day before the sixteenth presidential election was infamous, and in this fourteenth presidential election he would commit another major blunder—the Chowon Bokguk incident. The essence of that scandal was illegal election interference involving civilian, government, and military actors, further inflamed by regional sentiment. It had actually been carried out. The man who exposed it was none other than Jeon Jae-jun standing here now. The problem lay in how the information had been obtained. While catching the ruling party’s illegal activities was good, the method—wiretapping—had been the fatal flaw. The illegal election interference issue was instantly flipped by the opposition’s own illegal wiretapping, and even Busan turned against them. Thereafter, regional sentiment became the dominant force in Korean elections, only beginning to crack in the early to mid-twenty-first century.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
At Jeon Jae-jun’s words, Yoo Jae-won nodded and took the lead. He had visited the building several times during the general election and knew its layout well. Besides, he was not the sort of man to be intimidated anywhere. He had already offered a greeting; if Jeon Jae-jun remained curt to the end, Yoo Jae-won could match the tone.
The atmosphere inside the hall was warm. When Yoo Jae-won entered, everyone rose and applauded. The floor leader’s presentation of the appointment letter proceeded smoothly. Whether it was because Candidate Jeon Myeong-heon watched from the center of the front row with a pleased expression or because some reporters were filming, the scene was far more cordial than the coldness Jeon Jae-jun had shown.
Once the appointment letter was in hand, Yoo Jae-won held full authority and felt no constraints. After the greetings, formalities, and slogans concluded, it was his turn again. He demonstrated what it meant to transcend generations. Stepping onto the stage, he opened a laptop on the podium and connected it to the projector suspended from the ceiling. Projectors were still extremely expensive in Korea and rarely seen, but the Tongil National Party, backed by a wealthy patron, had no such problem. The high-resolution, high-brightness three-gun projector rendered the ID Presentation screen from the laptop with perfect clarity.
“I will get straight to the point. I intend to make active use of computer analysis techniques throughout this campaign. In other words, a computer-driven election strategy.”
The phrase “computer analysis” stirred an old memory. Back when he had used a 286 computer to predict South Korea’s medal count at the ’88 Olympics and dramatically improved his credibility with his parents. At the time computers had seemed almost magical, so the method had worked. Now everyone knew better. Computers were excellent tools, but they could not perform miracles that left people speechless. Therefore, the computer analysis Yoo Jae-won described was far more realistic than the 1988 version. It was simply the twenty-first-century electioneering method wrapped in the label of computer analysis.
The method itself was straightforward. Voters would be segmented by age, occupation, and region, and a three-dimensional campaign tailored to each segment would be conducted. Urban and rural voters wanted different pledges; each region had its own most pressing issues. Every generation cared about different matters. By collecting as much real-world data as possible, the party would run a voter-centric campaign.
“If you look here, you will see the organizational chart we will build.”
When Yoo Jae-won advanced the slide, a detailed chart appeared. It was not vague theory; the preparation was clearly thorough. He had worked on this presentation while waiting for the Tongil National Party’s call after returning from Busan. Two organizations were displayed: the Central Election Campaign Committee and the Central Election Campaign Headquarters. The former was a horizontal structure encompassing various classes and professions, hence the numerous committees—Labor Committee, Senior Citizens Committee, Farmers Committee, University Students Committee, and more than thirty others. The latter was a vertical structure descending from central to provincial to metropolitan to city levels, designed to execute Yoo Jae-won’s decisions immediately. Composed primarily of Tongil National Party lawmakers, party officials, and members, its titles followed the pattern of Director, Section Chief, Unit Chief, and Deputy Unit Chief.
“Ooh!”
A murmur of admiration rose among the lawmakers who had been watching the presentation with a touch of tension. Dozens of positions carried substantial titles. Titles mattered. The higher the position, the easier it would be to claim one’s share after the election. The prerequisite, of course, was victory, yet most of the current Tongil National Party lawmakers and officials believed they had a real chance.
“As you can see from the chart, there are a great many positions. In contrast, we are few. Therefore, holding multiple roles will be the norm, and some of you may need to juggle three different posts. In return, I am confident that the more energetically you work, the higher our approval ratings will climb.”
Extra effort was acceptable if it meant securing good positions without having to curry favor elsewhere. That was far preferable.
“The most important thing is teamwork. I politely decline any solo performances. We must become one. If teamwork functions properly, neither the Democratic Liberal Party nor the Democratic Party will be anything to fear. I ask that you devote your full energy to the roles assigned to you.”
Yoo Jae-won delivered the warning against forming private factions as gently as possible. Even so, his gaze met Jeon Jae-jun’s directly—Jeon Jae-jun, who was still slouching in his seat—as if to say, Yes, I’m talking about you.